The Rockefeller family had, by the late twentieth century, become an American shorthand for dynastic wealth — the kind of name that registered instantly as significant, that connoted access to circles unavailable to most people, and that discouraged the kind of direct verification that a different claim might have invited. You do not ask a Rockefeller for references. You do not press too hard on the details of which branch of the family, which estate, which trustees managed which assets. Asking would seem rude, and not knowing would seem like your own failing rather than his.
Gerhartsreiter understood this dynamic. He named himself Clark Rockefeller — first names that sounded patrician without being famous enough to invite comparison to a specific well-known individual. He claimed, when asked about family connections, to have fallen out with his relatives. He was the independent-minded Rockefeller, the one who pursued art and physics rather than the family business. He was not close with the others. This explained why no one had met him before, why he didn’t appear in press coverage of the family, why the actual Rockefellers didn’t seem to know him.
His address was a $2 million brownstone on Beacon Hill in Boston — one of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in New England, a physical marker of the wealth he claimed. His home was full of what he described as valuable artworks. He hosted dinner parties for intellectuals, academics, and the kind of Boston social figures who might find a Rockefeller a compelling guest.